Not So Smart After All
by HowlynMad
Summary: Sherlock claimed he was clean and there was no evidence otherwise but sometimes it doesn't matter how smart you are... there's just plain bad luck. Both S1 and S2/some language/references to drugs
1. Chapter 1

You know how it goes when you get an idea stuck in your head and it won't go away. Well, I just couldn't help but wonder after two (or more?) thorough searches of 221B Baker Street in an effort to find illicit substances and coming up with nothing… where a clever drug addict might hide his stash… because not only was that pretty definitely stated as canon in season 2 but I'm sorry that scene of Sherlock jonz'ing for _cigarettes_? Yeahhhhh, not buying it, he's just way too hyped up. Anyway, so I'm thinking about if I was searching and was dealing with someone as clever as Sherlock… where would he hide them? It quickly clicked for me and then I thought about what if John found out the hard way (I know it might be a little OOC for John but I don't think entirely improbable.) It was a quick write so there might be a bit of awkward grammar. I have in mind their confrontation for chapter two if anyone has any interest.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Bloody hell. That's what the day had been like at the hospital.

John trudged up the stairs to the second floor flat at 221b Baker Street. He was physically tired yes, but it was more than that, he was mentally exhausted. There had been a highway pile up that left ten dead and dozens wounded. The emergency room had turned into triage and just for a moment he had flashed back to hot days spent in a dirty ward, a wound in his shoulder oozing sluggishly while friends died all around him.

But those moments came more and more infrequently of late. It was hard for his past to intrude on his present when his present gave him far more to worry about. Oddly enough he didn't think of it as a bad thing, not at all. The flat was quiet. Too quiet.

**Sherlock? _JW_** The detective had texted him earlier that he had some leads to follow on a simple fraud case that Lestrade asked him to give a second look over, as the suspected perpetrator ended dead in a spectacularly grisly fashion. The crime pickings had been lean of late and Sherlock had been chafing for anything to occupy his time. That, in of itself, should worry him as the simpler the case the more his flatmate seemed to find trouble.

When there was no answer to his text John sighed lightly. He didn't know rather he was relieved or disappointed that he had some time to himself. While he could use some downtime from the hospital that didn't necessarily mean that he wanted to spend that time stretched out on his back in front of the television. Sherlock Holmes was by far the most infuriating man he had ever known but something inside him always quieted when the detective was around. He liked him… most of the time… when he wasn't hating him that is.

John hung his coat over the hook on the back of the door chuckling softly to himself. Next thing you know I'll be talking to the damn skull, he thought. Walking over to the chair he plopped down stiffly. Damn. His leg was aching. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Stress that's all it was. If Sherlock were here the detective would have him so wound up he couldn't even think about his leg. Yeah, ok, remind self not to mention that aloud. Too much speculation about them already.

He absently tapped his left hand against his leg, his fingers twitching. Damn. Damn. The events of the day had gotten to him worse than he first thought. He contemplated texting Sherlock again to see when he would be home. Well, that was pathetic. When will you be home honey, I'm lonely and I miss you. John could almost see the imperious stare he would get from his flatmate over that bit of self-pity. He sighed, you know, he really wouldn't mind a smoke. He'd been known to have the occasional cigar in the past, though as a doctor, he certainly knew better.

John leaned back and closed his eyes trying to relax. He could always have a drink. No. None of that, not now, not ever. He'd resolved he wouldn't turn to drink no matter what the cause. He'd seen too many go down that path, including his own sister. Wait a minute, why hadn't he thought about it before? The nicotine patches. Sherlock used them constantly and they seemed to help him mellow out. In fact, they were about the only thing that would slow him down, ostensibly to think more clearly.

John came to his feet and headed to the bathroom. Be a damn sight easier on his body than an actual smoke too. He rummaged about in the medicine cabinet but came up with nothing. Hm. Sherlock seldom went without a patch for very long so they had to be around somewhere. He glanced at all the clutter in the kitchen. He could spend years looking for a small box in that mess. Besides you never knew what unpleasantness you might find amidst Sherlock's experiments.

What the hell, he thought and went to Sherlock's bedroom door and tried the knob. It wasn't locked. Surely, if Sherlock wanted privacy he would have locked the door? It wasn't like anywhere else in the flat was private. It had taken several loud conversations before Sherlock had finally gotten it through his head that his mate's bedroom was off limits to his experiments and his curiosity. It was his one and only Sherlock-free zone. Now here he was, about to do what he told his flatmate in no uncertain terms not to do... but he didn't have nefarious purposes like some people. Why would he care? And it wasn't like Sherlock used the room much, hardly at all, he justified.

When the detective did finally sleep he usually passed out on the sofa in the living room, dead to the world for hours on end. The man had once slept twenty hours straight without moving. He'd almost considered hauling him off to the hospital but Sherlock had finally roused and eaten a voracious breakfast then was back to his usual maniacal self.

Conscience quieted, John pushed the door open slowly and poked his head in. It wasn't like there would be anyone in there, he was just being silly he chided himself. Stepping into the room, he looked around casually. The space looked as he expected it would. There were books everywhere and papers and other odd bits of paraphernalia. The bed was smoothly made but there were several things strewn across it including a large axe, what looked to be a cheddar wheel, a ski mask, a half filled bowl of water (at least it looked like water) and ammunition of various calibers. Peeking out from under one of the pillows was what appeared to be a puppet of some sort and he just didn't want to know.

Taking it all in, he didn't think it any more likely that he would be able to find the patches in this constrained madness than in the kitchen. Besides he wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock wouldn't have booby-trapped his room against possible criminal incursion. Knowing the detective as he did, it wouldn't be something as mundane as rigging a gun either. There would probably be poisonous darts or attack rats involved. He sighed lightly then turned to go and there on the bedside table next to him was a small box of nicotine patches. "Well, I'll be damned," he chuckled.

John grabbed up the box and turned it over to read the label. The prescription was made out to Sherlock Holmes with the suggested use, which of course, the detective ignored. It was a wonder he hadn't OD'd the way he used multiple doses at once, seemingly at whim. Opening the box, he found eight patches left. Good, he wouldn't be leaving Sherlock without his crutch, plenty of time to renew the prescription without running out. Tearing open a pack he pressed it to his forearm just above the wrist.

It shouldn't take long. The patches were saturated with a chemical that helped the nicotine permeate into the bloodstream. It was as effective a delivery system as a needle. He crushed the foil wrapper in his hand and headed back out to the kitchen. He already felt just a tad better, though he knew it was most likely the placebo effect rather than the patch.

Maybe he would watch some crappy telly and just wait for Sherlock to get back so they could order in. See if he could get the detective to eat something…whoa. He did feel better… all over. There was a lightness and calm settling over him like a blanket. It was nice. It was better than nice. It was great. He smiled, guess he was more of a lightweight than he thought. Light, light, light, light as a feather, light as rain, wait, what was it he was going to do? Oh yeah, chill out until Sherlock got back.

By the time John Watson reached the doorway that opened the kitchen to the living area he felt mellow as a cat… with senses equally as sharp. The room seemed brighter than usual, the colors more vivid. He could hear each intake and exhale of breath and his heart was beating loud in his ears. It was hypnotic. Why had he not noticed it all before?

He didn't know how long he stood there staring at the patterned wallpaper before he realized that something just wasn't quite right about this. What the hell? Was he having some kind of reaction to the nicotine? He took another step and found his balance was a bit off and side-stepped. He giggled and did a little jig. Ok, now he knew that something was wrong. But nothing felt wrong, in fact, he felt fucking fantastic, like he could fly so very… high. High.

His dilated eyes blazed wide. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed tearing the patch from his arm. He pulled in a deep ragged breath and stammered, "Oh, oh , oh… you… you, clever son of a bitch. All this time, all this fucking time. You…" John fell into the nearest chair, "I'm going to kill him. Yep, as soon as I can feel my toes again I'm going to kill him." He nodded absently to himself. "You just wait. I can't believe this. Lied… not even Mycroft the wiser. Oh, you are in such deep shit, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Confident with his plan to strangle the world's only consulting detective with his bare hands John Watson decided he might as well enjoy the ride and put his head back.


	2. Chapter 2

The door slammed shut with a window rattling clamor, "Mrs. Hudson!" The deep baritone rang out followed by fast lithe steps on the staircase and the billow of a coat as Sherlock Holmes swept into the flat like a winters storm.

Not even bothering to look in John's direction the man spun himself out of his coat, "Well, that was pointless and tedious. I really have to question how normal people even manage to feed themselves. Does the constabulary like to make my life miserable by offering me these dull games to play? A five year old could have figured out the…" the detective paused almost imperceptibly as he hung his coat over the hook on the back of the door. "…clues."

Sherlock reached out to unnecessarily smooth his favorite piece of clothing. "You've had a bad day at the hospital," he offered without turning.

John sat still as a statue. He'd had almost an hour to think it through. Was he still mad as a wet cat? Oh yes. Still murderous? No. Being anything less than completely rational would not serve him in this. Sherlock would have to be made to understand and it wasn't going to be easy. "Mmm," he acknowledged. "Yes, a very bad day."

Sherlock nodded and turned, "Been waiting for take-away too. What are you in the mood for?"

The detective's eyes didn't quite meet his own. It was very subtle. But John was good at reading Sherlock. He already knew he'd been found out. Of course he did, this was Sherlock Holmes. In the end, maybe it just made it easier, no fumbling for words.

John leaned over and took a pen and pad from the side table next to him. "I'm good with Chinese." He poised the pen to paper, "I need dosage and the frequency of administration."

"Excuse me?" The detective shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He really could feign guileless quite well when he tried.

John's eyes cut up to Sherlock's face, "You heard me. If I'm going to recommend a proper treatment schedule I need to know what I'm dealing with… but I've pretty much already decided to cut your dosage by half out of the gate, so it probably won't be pleasant regardless. Dosage?"

"Really John, I'm sure…"

"Don't. Just don't. You're busted, plain and simple. It was a stunningly crafted plan, really. A perfect Sherlockian masterpiece but in the end you can't control every variable, all the time. Shit happens. So…" he wiggled his pen over the notepad.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. His lips pursed tight.

Yeah, this was going to go as well as he thought it was, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"This will go a lot faster if you stop dancing. You know I'm your friend and that I will do everything I can to make this as easy on you as possible. I'm only trying to help." There, that was reasonable and tactful.

"I don't recall asking you for any help," Sherlock snapped back.

"Maybe not, but you obviously need it." Ok, so maybe not as tactful but it needed to be said. The man was a great bloody idiot at times.

"Is that so?" Sherlock drew out the syllables in a disdainful hiss.

John's took a slow breath. Patience. "Sherlock, you have a problem and you know you have a problem. So let's just address it and move on."

"It's not a problem." Sherlock swept across the room and grabbed his violin. He began plucking idly at the strings.

Deep breaths. "So Inspector Lestrade never found you half dead from an overdose once? Because I would say that's a problem."

"That was five years ago and has nothing to do with this." Plink. Plink. Plink.

"I don't know why I'm explaining this to you." John shook his head. He already had a headache.

Sherlock's icy gaze locked on his own, "Frankly, neither do I."

John stood slowly, his hands clenched at his sides. "All right, then let's not talk about you, let's talk about me. You are my friend, my family, and I'm not about to stand around and do nothing when you're putting yourself in danger... rather it's on a case or because you're being a self-destructive idiot. You're injecting narcotics into your nicotine patches to get high and I'm not willing to stand idly by while you do that to yourself."

The ice in Sherlock's expression cracked slightly as he answered, "I'm not doing it to get high. I'm doing it to stay sane."

John's anger fell away with a sigh. His hands relaxed at his sides. "Sherlock, there has to be a way to control your mood swings without resorting to this. A proper medical diagnosis would help. Things like manic depression or…"

"I already know what I am John, so do you. You just don't like hearing it."

"You're not a sociopath."

"Body parts in the fridge notwithstanding."

"You make it sound like you're the one that killed them. You may have a less than healthy attraction to death and your empathy is just shy of nil but that you're a…"

"Freak?" the detective offered.

"Don't ever say that," he took a step towards the man he called best friend. He didn't know who he was more angry with, the people that said things like that to Sherlock or whoever had made him think that of himself.

"Why not? It's accurate enough." He sounded genuinely curious now, the plinking momentarily forgotten.

"It's not and I don't like that term. It's derogatory. And even if it doesn't bother you, which I'm not so sure about, it bothers me. A lot."

"Oh John, you're not still holding out some ridiculous hope that I can become some kind of force for good in the world are you? Because it's just not going to happen. I know you don't want to hear this but I simply don't have the emotional capacity. I have my own reasons for doing what I do but they will never be altruistic."

"Fair enough. But this isn't about labels it's about your health, physical and mental. You're self- medicating and that's dangerous. If you want me to act as your physician in this I will. But the first thing we need to do is get you off the narcotics and then we can decide the best course of treatment."

An echo of sadness played across Sherlock's features and then was gone. "I thought you were different," his voice so small it was almost a whisper. He nodded and a frost seemed to settle in his artic eyes. . "So you want me to change then."

"Change? I want you to stop doing illicit drugs. What kind of change are you talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know. Everything," his voice had taken on a hard, flip edge. "You're too abrasive, be nicer Sherlock, can't you try to make friends Sherlock, I know you could feel something if you tried Sherlock, why can't you be like everyone else Sherlock. Just throw away everything you are so that you can become like all the rest isn't that what you're asking of me, John!"

"No! No, it's certainly not. I would no more want you to change than… well, there are a couple of things I wouldn't mind, like would it kill you to buy milk or cereal once in a while? I mean seriously… it's called compromise, Sherlock. People do it every day of their lives. It allows us to live and work together without killing each other. It doesn't mean you have to change who you fundamentally are."

"In my case, it rather does."

"You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, the world would be a sadder place without the likes of you. Just as you are. This isn't about changing who you are… but if this is just some technique to try and dissuade me it's not going to work. The drugs have to stop."

"No."

"No? Just like that? You're not even willing to compromise for the sake of your health and safety?" John was exasperated. Why couldn't the man just understand?

"It's for my health and everyone's safety that I occasionally avail myself of pharmacology. You know my mind won't shut down, not ever. I have to keep the boredom at bay. And I need to sleep sometimes."

"I understand that, so let me help. Let me find an alternative that everyone can live with."

"Not necessary. I fail to see how it's anyone else business. I'm perfectly able to handle my own needs. And might I remind you, if you hadn't fallen victim to your own need you wouldn't even be aware that I was medicating. You're starting to sound alarmingly like my brother." He turned and stalked off to the kitchen.

"Insulting me won't work either," John trailed after him. "And just because I never found anything before doesn't mean that I wasn't aware. I just couldn't prove it. Let's try and remember that I'm a doctor and I do notice things like dilated eyes or shaking hands. Not all reactions are controllable. You are still human no matter how much you like to deny it."

"Well, we are at an impasse in this discussion because I have no intention of changing my routine," he dismissed. Sherlock pulled up a chair and started fiddling with the microscope set up on the kitchen table.

"Then yes we are, because I told you I won't stand by and watch you self-destruct."

"Ok, well now that we have that settled make sure you order extra pot-stickers. I feel peckish after all." The detective eyed the specimen slide making a little hm noise.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn't want to do this but the recalcitrant man before him wasn't leaving him any choice. "No, I don't think I'll be staying for dinner."

"You're not staying? But you're the one that's hungry." Sherlock finally deigned to look up, "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving," the statement sad but resolute.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, we've already established that but where are you going?"

"I'll go stay with Sarah for a couple of nights. I'm sure she won't mind." He could see the gears turning at a breakneck speed in that brilliant mind and yet Sherlock still hadn't grasped the obvious. As far as he was concerned the previous topic was closed.

"You just had sex two days ago. Can't you wait…"

"No! No, no, just stop." John put up his hands. How did he get into these conversations? "This isn't about sex."

Sherlock just continued to stare at him, confusion evident on his face.

"As long as you continue to use narcotics I can't be here. I won't." John turned away. He really didn't want to look into those pale blue eyes anymore. "If you don't mind I'll leave my things here for a few days? Just until I can find somewhere else."

"You won't find anywhere else."

"Excuse me?"

"You told Mike Stamford that no one would want to share a flat with you given your issues. I can't imagine that has changed in the year that you have been living here with me. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you would be a worse flatmate now as your habits now coincide more with mine. Even the most masochistic of personalities wouldn't last more than two point four weeks in your company."

"Thanks a lot," he offered drily. "But I think you're projecting. That's the longest any of _your_ other roomies lasted."

"Irrelevant. This is your home. This is where you are flourishing. To leave over a simple difference of opinion is foolish."

"Simple difference of opinion? Did we just have the same conversation? Are you…" John took a deep breath. "Listen to me very carefully Sherlock. I am moving out. Do you understand? I care about you too much to ignore what you're doing to yourself. You won't stop and you won't let me help you. This is not what I want but you leave me no choice. I'm sorry."


	3. Chapter 3

He pulled his duffel from the back of the closet and lay it open on the bed. And he thought his day at the hospital had been bad. Now, not only was he losing his home but his best friend, all in the span of twenty four hours. John sat down on the end of the bed. Was the doing the right thing? Throwing out an ultimatum like that? Sherlock responded to threats head on. The only time the man backed down was when he thought he could use it to his advantage. He should have had more patience with him, given him some time to think it through before he pushed for a resolution.

Sherlock would probably see his actions as abandonment, just like everyone else that came into the man's life but couldn't handle what that life entailed. Living in the detective's sphere of influence was like being caught up in the tail of a comet. You held on for dear life and hoped that you didn't burn up in the process. It was frightening and exhilarating. He couldn't imagine living any other way now. But then again he wasn't doing this for any thrills. He was doing this because he genuinely cared for Sherlock. He had to do what was best and allowing him to use narcotics to manage his issues without proper medical care was dangerous.

"Of all the stubborn, pig-headed gits," he muttered. He couldn't back down now. If he did, he would lose any chance of getting Sherlock to take him seriously on the matter of the drugs. He had to go through with it. He had to show him that he wouldn't just give in. Damn. This just wasn't going to work out well. What had he done?

He started throwing odds and ends clothes into the duffel. It was always possible that Sherlock would concede to his ultimatum and they could compromise… yeah, right. Pigs would fly and hell would freeze over. John zipped the bag up tight and slung it over his shoulder. He looked around the bedroom that had been part of his home for the last year. This hurt. He shut the door quietly behind him and headed out to the living area. There was just one more thing that he needed to do before he could leave. Something else that Sherlock wasn't going to like.

Sherlock was sitting in his favorite leather chair in front of the fireplace. He was still idly plucking at the strings of his violin. He looked up, his expression unreadable.

"That's it for now, I guess." John shifted from one foot to the other. There was nothing he could think of to say that would make a difference now. The ball was in Sherlock's court.

"Apparently," the detective's tone completely neutral, devoid of any emotion or life.

"Ok, well. I'm going now." He took a couple of steps until he was standing just behind his own fireplace chair. "There's just one other thing." Pulling the small box from his jacket he tossed the remaining narcotic enhanced nicotine patches into the fire. The flame briefly flared blue.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, "I hope you realize that was a thousand quid worth of product you just incinerated."

"Good." He grabbed up the duffel and went to the door. "I want you to understand that if you need me I'll be at Sarah's. You know all you have to do is call and I'll come. I'll help you with this anytime… but until this resolved, the rest of it… you're on your own. I can't be involved in your life right now."

"You've made yourself perfectly clear, thank you. You can go now." Sherlock put the violin to his chin and drew the bow across the strings in a single clear soaring note. "Goodbye, John"

John nodded to him and turned away. If this was the right thing to do why the hell did it feel so wrong?

OoOoOoOoOoOo

It was three days before he got the call from Mycroft. "Hello, John."

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been anxiously awaiting the call, any news about how Sherlock was faring. Even if it did originate from the vaguely unsettling surveillance that Mycroft held on his brother. "Mycroft. Everything all right?" A thousand scenarios flitted through his mind and none of them pleasant.

"You tell me."

John wanted to punch him. "Please get to the point." He tried to keep the tension from his voice but only half succeeded.

"Very well. You don't usually spend more than a single night at Sarah's. You've been there three days. During which time you haven't had any contact with Sherlock at all. I wouldn't normally insinuate myself into your domestic squabbles but my brother has apparently locked himself in your flat and isn't answering calls or the door for that matter. Is there something I need to know about?"

"No." He really didn't like involving Mycroft in Sherlock's problems. No matter how much the elder Holmes claimed he was just looking out for the younger there was something obsessive about his need to control Sherlock. "You haven't checked in on him then?"

"Should I?" There was a pause on the line, "Lestrade has left messages about two potential cases but hasn't received a response."

That couldn't be good. Sherlock's boiling emotions were commonplace enough but "the work" always came first. It was the one thing that kept Sherlock on an even keel without chemical intervention. "I'm headed over there now."

"Thank you, John. Let me know if there is anything I can do."

"We'll be fine." He only hoped he was right.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"I heard him playing his violin yesterday that's how I knew he hadn't gone out."

"You didn't try the key?" John questioned.

"I did but he's blocked the door with something. If I hadn't been at my sister's all weekend I would have called you myself but I didn't know anything was wrong until I couldn't get into the flat."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take care of it."

"Everything's all right with you two isn't it?" her words fraught with worry.

"It will be."

John knocked on the upstairs door, "Sherlock? Sherlock, come on and open the door. I know you're there. I want to talk to you." No response. He banged harder. "Sherlock, open the door."

He pulled the flat keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. The knob turned easy enough but the door only opened a sliver. Pressing his fingers through the narrow slit he could just touch what felt like a kitchen chair pushed under the knob on the inside. John turned back to where Mrs. Hudson stood anxiously at the bottom of the stairs. "Could you bring me a broom, please?"

"Of course." She turned without question.

"Sherlock. Open the door, please. I'm not leaving until I see you so let's not be childish. Open the door." He was starting to get really worried. His friend wasn't one to shy away from confrontation. He wouldn't hide in the flat… not unless there was something wrong. "Sherlock!"

"Here's the broom." Their "landlady" cum "not housekeeper" cum "mother figure" gave him a worried look. She understood as well as he did Sherlock's self-destructive nature.

"Thanks." Placing the broom flat on the floor, John pushed the handle under the door and swiped it around until he felt it hit one of the chair legs. He nudged against it, lining up, then gave a hard thrust. The chair toppled with a thunk against the door. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, "I should handle this."

She nodded, "I understand. I'll be downstairs when you need me."

He nodded. God bless that woman. John pushed open the door slowly, unsure as to what he would find on the other side. He stepped into the flat and looked around. He didn't know what he expected, utter chaos perhaps, but the flat didn't look any different from how he left it three days ago.

"Sherlock?" The place was as quiet as a tomb. The analogy made a lump form in his throat. "Sherlock, where are you?" he turned at a small shuffling sound and saw legs poking out from the far side of the sofa. "Sherlock?" He dashed around the coffee table.

Sherlock sat on the floor, back to the wall. His normally porcelain features were waxy and held a feverish sheen. He was shivering slightly. "John? What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Jesus." John fell to his knees. His medical training taking over. Eyes red and puffy. Complexion waxen, dark circles under the eyes. He brought his hands to his friend's face and cupped his cheeks. "You have a fever."

The detective half-heartedly batted his hands away. "I don't want you here."

"What are you talking about? You're sick… you're, oh god, you're trying to detox on your own. I had no idea it was this bad. Damn it. What was I thinking. You were using a couple of boxes a month. I should have known better."

Sherlock turned his head away. "It will pa..pass. I d…don't need any help."

"Right. I can see that. Why the hell would you… you don't need to go through this alone, you know. That's what friends… family is for! How long as it been since you've had anything to drink? You're dehydrated I can tell by your lips." John shook his head. "Sherlock… if you weren't so sick right now I'd kick your stubborn arse. Come on." He wrapped his arms around the detective and pulled him up with a grunt. Sherlock was thin but surprisingly muscular or maybe not so surprising as the man was always on the move. "Come on."

"Leave me be," Sherlock groused, not helping but thankfully not fighting.

"On the sofa come on. Two steps." John pressed him back and he fell into the cushions with a groan. Sherlock's teeth started to chatter and he pulled his knees up to his chest. There was a small blanket over the back of the chair, he grabbed it and wrapped it tightly around the shaking figure. "Look at you." John shook his head. "I'm really sorry."

"I find your pity insulting." Sherlock bit out. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, shivering. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"I'm here, where I belong. And it's not pity, its compassion. Do you understand the difference?"

"No."

"I'm going to make you a nice cup of hot tea. I want you to drink it all down. Do not move, understand? I'll get you another blanket too. See if we can't get your temperature regulated."

"You told me you wouldn't come back."

John froze in his tracks. The tone was even but not nearly as unemotional as the detective intended it to be. Now he felt like a truly right fine bastard. "I know what I said. And I meant it, that you need help managing this stuff, but I was wrong to just leave you like that. I should have known you would have to prove me wrong. Make it a non-issue." He turned and faced the shivering man on the sofa. He looked so miserable. "I will always come back. Do you understand? We're family."


	4. Chapter 4

The kettle was gurgling happily so John tried to remember what he could about drug detox. It wasn't his area of expertise but it wasn't like he hadn't dealt with it before. There were more than a few soldiers who had fallen victim to substance abuse to make it through the war. It wasn't all that different from what he'd gone through with his own family. Yeah, he'd been there and done that.

There would be fever and chills as well as stomach upset. There would be pain and tremors, there might even be hallucinations if the withdrawal was bad enough. It would all depend on the dosage and Sherlock's tolerance levels. At least, Sherlock knew what to expect. It wasn't the man's first time through it, though he sincerely hoped it was his last.

He'd heard about how Lestrade had first met Sherlock those five years ago. The man had been in a bad place apparently. It was Lestrade that had unknowingly given Sherlock the direction he needed. Detective work had caught his fancy and here they were chasing bad guys five years later. While Sherlock had still been using, it was apparently either sporadic or at a level that he could control. Skewed thinking of course, you couldn't control such a thing forever, it _would _catch up to you. Which is why they were in the predicament they were in now. John grabbed up a small tray and headed back to the living area.

Sherlock was resting against the arm of the sofa. He had pulled himself into a ball, pulling the blanket around himself so he was cocooned. It was no small feat considering the man's height. There was one cerulean eye peering out from a slit in the fabric. The detective looked absolutely miserable. Well good, thought John. Serves him right. But he didn't really mean it, not really. He wouldn't wish such suffering on anyone, except maybe Moriarty. That made him smile thinly.

"Alright. I've got some nice hot tea, mildly sweet, and some aspirin. And if you can hold it down, a warm biscuit with some butter." John placed the tray on the coffee table. Sherlock didn't move. "Why don't you sit up and see if you can drink some of this?" he tried again.

"No," came the muffled reply.

John sighed. He imagined this must be what it was like to be a parent. Well, if the detective wanted to act like a child then he would treat him as one. "Sherlock, you are dehydrated and you need to take in fluids now. If you would prefer a trip to the hospital, I can arrange that for you but you will drink something one way or the other. Are we clear?" He offered his best stern expression.

He could see the single blood-shot eye roll skywards but the detective dragged himself forward, half pushing, half rolling himself into a sitting position. A small sighing moan, almost too soft to hear, escaped his lips.

"Do you feel sick? I should get a waste can," John turned. He didn't want to have to clean a mess if he could avoid it.

"Not necessary," Sherlock stated with some of his old distain intact. "My head hurts, that's all."

"I'm sure it does. Between the detox and the dehydration, you probably have a whopper of a headache." John paused for dramatic effect, "Which is why I'm encouraging you to… drink… something."

Sherlock's gaze canted slightly down to the tea tray. "Is that Chai? It smells like Chai."

"A weak brew. The spices should help with any stomach upset. You want to try the biscuit?"

Sherlock pulled the blanket away from his face and stared at the food like it had personally offended him in some way. "No. I don't want anything."

"All right then, just the tea." John went about pouring. "Let's see if we can't get a couple of cups down you an hour." John stood back, giving the man some space. His face was pale and drawn. He was shivering slightly even though the flat was quite comfortably warm. "Let me get you another blanket."

John turned towards the hall. All in all not a bad start but he had no illusions that Sherlock would make this easy. He would have to be prepared for it to get much worse before it got better. John grabbed a warm fuzzy blanket from the hall closet and grabbed an extra pillow while he was at it. Heading back into the living area he asked, "Is there anything else I can get you?

Sherlock had once more pulled himself into a ball. The blanket cocooned around him but now his feet were sticking out. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and deep. It looked all the world like the man had fallen into a much needed sleep... but he knew better.

He walked over to the sofa and tossed the blanket over the prone detective. "You'll probably doze right off if you drink some of the tea first."

"You are the bane of my existence."

John chuckled. "That's good to hear." And it really was. If Sherlock was up to bantering then his symptoms couldn't be that bad. "Your brother called me."

Sherlock gave a great groaning sigh and rolled over, pulling as much of the blanket as he could with him.

John sat on the edge of the coffee table and talked to the fuzzy lump with feet. "I think he was worried about you."

"He doesn't worry," came the muffled reply, "He obsesses."

"Yeah, he does." John acknowledged. "Particularly, when it comes to you."

"You have no idea. Now leave me alone my head is pounding."

"As soon as you drink some of this tea." John reached over and grabbed up a cup. "Should be about the right temp now. Give it a try."

Sherlock's head popped up. "Will you promise to leave me alone if I drink it?"

"I promise to leave you alone for a while, yes." John replied with a light smile. "We'll play it by ear, shall we?"

"Not definite enough," and down went the head.

"Sorry, that's all you're getting. Now get your arse up and drink some of this. I'm not kidding, Sherlock. I'm one beat away from calling the hospital and…"

Sherlock darted up and then grabbed his head. "Give me the damn thing already," he mumbled.

John handed over the cup and watching as the detective drained every last drop. Ideally, he'd like to see him maintain that intake every half hour but that would be pushing it at this point.

Sherlock passed the cup back with an imperious hand. "Now if you don't mind, I would like to suffer in peace." He rolled over, pulling the blankets back over his head.

So much for tender loving care.


End file.
